“Yes,” answered Holdsworth.
“I judge so by an air of travel about you, if you’ll pardon me. Forgive me, sir, if I inquire your secret—understand me—your secret opinion as to that song just sung by the gentleman opposite.”
“To tell you the truth,” replied Holdsworth, who imagined that his companion wanted to draw him into a political argument, “I only caught a few of the verses, and am therefore scarcely able to give an opinion.”
“Humph!” exclaimed the other. “Now, sir, I call that song clever—damned clever, and I’ll tell you why: it’s ironical. Without irony, sir, I wouldn’t give a pin’s head for the best piece of humour in the world. You’ll excuse what I am about to say, sir, I’m sure. You are a traveller—I flatter myself I can tell that with half an eye. Now, sir, as a man who has visited other countries, and observed human nature in a hundred different forms, you can’t help being a Whig. Confess, sir, that you share my political views, which are those of a man who has only one cry—‘Down with rubbish!’”
“I hate rubbish as much as any man,” replied Holdsworth.
His companion looked struck and delighted.
“Your hand, sir. Permit me to shake it. I love a Whig, sir. Here’s to your good health.”
“Are you a native of this country, sir?” he continued, glancing at Holdsworth’s dress, which had a decidedly colonial cut.
“I believe so.”